


Paint a Picture, It'll Last Longer

by willowsandwonders



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, It's a Baz pov he legally has to spend it pining, M/M, Pining, Poet!Baz, artist!simon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 20:35:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowsandwonders/pseuds/willowsandwonders
Summary: Baz and Simon are, historically, the worst roommates in Watford history.But that doesn't stop Baz from falling in love.





	Paint a Picture, It'll Last Longer

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a Christmas gift, but here we are on Valentine's Day, (oops.) Regardless, I hope it's still a good read! I've never read or written Carry On fic before, but I did my best in the name of friendship. I hope that you enjoy it!

“It’s just _ridiculous,”_ Baz cries as he turns on one heel, beginning his pacing circuit again for the hundredth time. The dorm isn’t the ideal place for it, but he’ll be damned if he does this anywhere where someone might _see_ him. He has the door locked and his desk chair pushed halfheartedly against it, that way if his complete bastard of a roommate tries to walk in on him he’ll have a few seconds to prepare himself. Getting caught off-guard by Simon never ends well. Especially when it involves the sort of pacing that stems from any sort of gay crisis which _he is not having._

“Ridiculous,” he repeats, pointing an angry finger at the stuffed Waterford mascot on Simon’s desk that’s serving as his audience. “There is _no way_ he can have muscles like that when he sits in a bloody _art studio_ all day. Does he bench press while he paints?” It’s a question the dopey, overstuffed dragon does not answer. Something about the look in its eyes pisses him off and he’s half tempted to swipe it off the desk. But then Simon would notice and freak out, and they would have _another_ meeting with the RA about leaving each other’s sides of the room alone. And even in the tight quarters of their dorm, Baz hasn’t crossed that invisible line since sophomore year, when he _allegedly_ lit Simon’s lampshade on fire. It was a horrendously ugly lamp, anyway. Whoever burned it probably did him a favor.

There had been all kinds of talk, though. _Did you hear about those weird guys on the fourth floor? I heard one of them tried to set the building on fire._ Baz didn’t get into any trouble because he didn’t do anything wrong. But plenty of nosy people asked him if he really hated his roommate _that_ much.

The private and unfortunate answer was that, no, he didn’t actually hate him at all.

Well, maybe he hated him a bit _today,_ on account of the muscles he’d spotted this morning. He hadn’t meant to look, but Simon had staggered out of the bathroom already halfway out of his pajama shirt. He’d called Simon an exhibitionist and passed everything off as anger. But Baz’ resolve when it comes to Simon is flimsy. He knows, no matter how much it frustrates him, that all he can do about Simon is love him.

\---

Baz hasn’t always been gay for his roommate. Freshman year they’d both fucking _hated_ each other. Freshman Baz would have laughed in his face for _hours_ at this new development. And current Baz would deserve it. Out of the entire school, the entire bloody _world,_ he just _had_ to get pulled in by Simon Snow. Ridiculous, that’s what it is. An entire _sea_ of hot, artsy boys strolling all over the campus and Baz was never interested in any of them. And the worst part is that no one would believe him if he told them. After freshman year spent oscillating between avoiding the room at all costs and harshly whispered arguments during quiet hours to sophomore year when they actually _beat the shit out of each other,_ they’ve become a bit of a campus talking point, the two freaks who can't stand each other but live together anyway.

He was never supposed to have ended up with Simon. When he’d imagined Watford, he’d assumed that everyone there would be at least _halfway_ reasonable _._ Sure things had changed under the new headmaster, but it wasn’t the kind of school to bumble your way into. You still needed _talent_ to get in, even if it needed some refining. When a younger, naive Baz had imagined his future roommate he’d thought of a nameless and faceless, but polite, boy who kept the room clean and generally let Baz be. Maybe a writer like him, though ideally not a poet so that they didn’t step on each other’s toes.

But when he left himself up to the mercy of Watford’s random assignment, he was given Simon Snow. A tall and gangly mess of a Painting major. Baz thought he would flunk out within the first month, when they were still growing to hate each other and Simon would come back to the room at late hours of the night groaning and moaning about he couldn’t make anything _good._ But somehow, Simon stayed.

Watford had rules, rules that made it annoying to switch rooms and the mandate that all students had to live on campus for at least the first three years. It was the worst kind of luck that put them together and made them stay there, a mess of negotiations with a useless RA that never went anywhere and no rooms left on campus for one of them to get sent away to. Sophomore year Baz _could_ have applied for a new roommate, but Dev and Niall were already rooming together and his luck with random assignment was already pure shite, so he figured he would end up with someone even _worse_ if he tried for a random roommate again. That’s what he told himself, at least. (Though Baz loathes to admit it, even to himself, his little crush _may_ have started earlier than junior year.)

It’s a bit shallow, but it was Simon’s looks that struck the first blow. He had been so intently focused on hating them that Simon so much as _breathing_ irritated him, let alone listening to any of the words that came out of his mouth. But even if he didn’t talk to Simon, he still saw him every day in the room. Storming in frustrated, forgotten streaks of paint down his arms as he ran his hands through his hair. Yawning as he brushes his mop of hair in the morning, sleepy eyes roaming around the room. When his phone lights up with a text from a friend and something in Simon _glows_ as he reads it and a smile spreads across his face. Call Baz creepy for watching Simon in all of those little moments, but sometimes he swears he catches Simon doing the same to him.

Baz is violently yanked out of his thoughts by the rattle of the doorknob. On good days, Baz is a young expert on forced indifference. If poetry ends up being a washout, he could probably make a career out of acting nonchalant while internally melting down. Give seminars, or something.

Today, his knee-jerk reaction is to shriek, “Don’t come in!” at a pitch twice as high as normal. If it’s Simon on the other side of the door, he’ll drive a stake through his own heart.

“Baz?” _Goddamnit._ If they weren’t on the fourth floor, Baz would be halfway out of the window by now. Hell, he’s still considering it. But while he’s a lot of less than favorable things, a quitter isn’t one of them. He can face this head on.

He stomps over to the door and yanks it open. And there’s Simon, the massive, blue-eyed thorn in his side. _And in your heart, too,_ his brain unhelpfully supplies. Simon has a canvas in his arms, covered with a sheet and pressed close to his chest. When he sees Baz he clutches it tighter, refusing to look him in the eyes.

“Create another masterpiece?” Baz is proud of himself for how aloof he sounds. For the first few months Baz knew him, he was damn near certain that Simon was a dud. His desk was always covered in shitty drawings ripped out of his sketchbook. Gun to his head, a million references in front of him, he couldn’t manage to draw the most simple figure. Everything was a maddening scramble of lines or looked like a preschooler’s rendition. Sometimes a bit of both. The rumor, as Baz has been pleased to hear, was that he drove his professors completely crazy.

But then one night sophomore year, Simon hadn’t come back to the room. Baz _always_ got to the room after him, sometimes coming back barely before sunrise. Insomnia combined with a deep desire to interact with Simon as little as possible had created the habit. But at half past one, Simon had been nowhere to be seen. Baz had tossed the idea back and forth of calling him, or trying to track down one of his annoying friends and ask where he was. But he hadn’t had the willpower for either and decided to trust that Simon was an adult and could take care of himself. By three, he was tossing and turning in his bed, still wide-awake.

Simon had come in just before four, staggering in like a drunken man with his shirt untucked and littered with smears of paint. Baz was too relieved to even give him a hard time. He looked like he’d gone through war with an art studio as the front line. Baz had let him sleep. And while he slept, the rumor mill had started spinning. Of some weird sophomore who had made an incredible painting in just one night, a swirl of beautiful, abstract colors that made Baz’ head spin when he saw the photo.

And that’s just how Simon works. He produces mountains of utter rubbish for _weeks,_ then has a sudden, violent burst of creativity and makes masterpieces. Baz doesn’t get it. But god, does he _love it._

\---

Over the next few weeks, Simon starts acting...strange. Baz has been avoiding him since their embarrassing interaction at the door, but he still can’t help noticing too much about Simon. Usually, Simon will show Baz his art, even if he knows he’s opening the door to Baz’ heckling. He leaves his sketchbook open and any canvases uncovered, all piled up on each other in the corner in a mess that Baz loves to hate. But now Simon acts like he’s a goddamn undercover agent, keeping even his sketches under lock and key. He looks Baz in the eyes even less and starts avoiding the room the same way Baz used to. When Simon comes back to the room, _if_ he comes back, he’s exhausted and covered in paint. It’s starting to _really_ bother Baz.

Simon’s too thick to intentionally get to Baz by playing hard to get and elusive, but it’s working anyway. In class, his poetry assignments start taking a new shape. He’s writing about bright blue eyes and messy brown hair and his _stupid_ crush when it rarely plagued his poetry before. If Simon keeps this up, Baz might just have to violate the roommate agreement and murder him.

\---

_Headache, 9:40 p.m: Idk where you are but I need the room for an hour_

_me, 9:42 p.m: Please, tell me more about why I can’t go to MY room_

_Headache, 9:42 p.m: Just please let me have an hour_

_Headache, 9:42 p.m: You know I would never ask you for a favor if it wasn’t important_

_me, 9:44 p.m: So you agree that you owe me for this?_

_Headache, 9:46 p.m: Yeah sure whatever. Just don’t come back before 11_

As tempting as the promise of Simon owing him a favor is, it’s time for him to get to the bottom of this. He has confirmation that Simon is in the room for at least another hour, and as per their dreaded roommate agreement it’s not like Simon can _actually_ stop him from going into their shared room. He snaps his laptop shut and slides it into his bag, doing a quick scan to make sure he’s not forgetting anything before he’s on his feet and moving. He’s going to figure this out _right now_ and there’s nothing Simon can do to--

His phone buzzes.

_Headache, 9:47 p.m: Penelope is guarding the door, not that I expected you to come running over to the room or anything_

_me, 9:47 p.m: She doesn’t even live in our hall, are you letting her in every time or does she secretly sleep in the broom closet?_

_Headache, 9:48 p.m: She’s just here to help me out, unlike some people_

_Headache, 9:48 p.m: People who would barge into the room when I asked them not to, hypothetically_

_Headache, 9:48 p.m: Just the worst kind of people, really. I’m so glad I don’t know anyone like that_

_me, 9:51 p.m: Are you going to keep insulting me or are you going to explain_

_Headache, 9:53 p.m: I got kicked out of the studio for the night so I’m finishing something up in the room_

_Headache, 9:53 p.m: I promise I won’t get paint anywhere. Penelope yelled at me for being a workaholic but she also brought me a tarp_

_Headache, 9:53 p.m: Don’t know where she got it from but anyway, I just need to finish this painting. You can see it sometime. Eventually. Maybe_

And with that cryptic as hell message, Simon stopped responding. And when Baz walked into the room at eleven sharp there was no Penelope, no painting. Just a roommate who wouldn’t even look his way.

\---

Baz wakes up to Simon two inches from his face. He’s never crossed the imaginary line splitting their room, before. The last time Simon was this close to him, he was punching him in the face. Today Baz blames being tired and very, very gay, but he doesn’t freak out and push him away. He just lies still and tiredly examines Simon’s face. Even with Baz’ bed lofted almost up to the ceiling, he’s tall enough to not even need to crane his neck. The unrestricted view of him is almost unfair. There’s the familiar, the blue eyes, the moles on his face. And there’s the new; there are deep bags under his eyes that Baz wants to make disappear. He’s probably being extremely creepy, but he can’t look away, either.

Simon takes a step back, clearing his throat. Baz has half a mind to blame it on the light streaming in from behind the curtains, but Simon’s face seems a little redder than usual. Without looking away, Simon awkwardly leans down and grabs his backpack up off of the floor, swinging it over his shoulders.

“I have class,” he says, taking another step backwards, back over the dividing line of the room. “But there’s, ah. There’s this show tonight that my class is putting on. It’s not anything big, we’re just all hanging up a couple of our pieces in an empty classroom. But--” Simon breaks eye contact and mutters something towards the floor that sounds like a swear. “But you can come, if you want. It’s at seven. I’ll text you the room number, and--” Baz can see the instant he loses the words. It’s been happening more often lately. “I’m running late,” Simon says, already halfway out the door, “I really need to get going.”

“I’ll be there,” Baz says, but the door has already clicked shut.

\---

Baz arrives to the show fashionably late. Twelve minutes past the hour exactly. He’d meant to get here at eight past, but he’d needed the extra time to perfect his outfit. Simon’s up to something and Baz wants to look as hot as possible for when this all blows up in his face. He scans the room, looking for his roommate, but he’s nowhere to be seen. There’s a few people Baz recognizes, but none he particularly likes, so he resigns himself to sulking in the corner until Simon appears. The whole show looks chaotic with this many people packed inside. He’s not about to wade through that blind to find Simon’s work. It’s not because he’s stalling, or anything.

He takes one step through the door, intent on finding a quiet corner to lurk in, when someone grabs his arm. It’s a light touch but it still startles the hell out of him. He whirls around to see Simon, looking slightly apologetic but mostly like he’s two seconds from going into heart failure.

“You came.” Simon has no right to sound genuinely happy to see him. It’s torture, to hear him talk like that. When both of them are acting like they hate each other, everything is so much easier.

“Of course I did,” Baz says anyway, before the rational parts of him can bury _that_ response under lock and key. “Now, show me what you invited me here to see.”

Simon takes his arm again, hesitantly. His grip is light; both of them seem surprised when Baz doesn’t try to break out of it immediately. Simon leads Baz through the maze of people without another word. Baz would usually hate the claustrophobia of this many people on all sides of him, but the warm press of fingers on his wrist makes it bearable. He almost doesn’t even notice when Simon stops walking, freezing an inch before crashing into his back.

And when he steps out from behind Simon, he sees them. Three paintings, all arranged in a vertical line. The first is a mess of angry lines and deep, swirling reds. In the second the reds trail out to the edges of the canvas, the center a mess of blues and purples. The last one is filled with lighter colors, streaks of pinks and white around pale orange shapes. Each one is stunning. Baz can’t pretend to be an expert on abstract art, but something about them keeps his eyes exploring them, drinking in the art that is so purely _Simon._

“One for each year I’ve known you.” _Oh._ That’s--

”Be right back,” Simon chokes out suddenly, already turning around and all but running into the cover of the crowd. Gone so fast it’s like he was never there at all. For a second Baz blanks, torn between the gorgeous paintings on the wall and the gorgeous boy he has a _lot_ of questions for. There have been so many nights where all Baz wanted was for his heart to _stop_ chasing after Simon Snow. Tonight, it feels more natural than anything to run after him.

\---

He finds Simon in a dark, deserted hallway, nervously running his hands through his hair and staring at a vending machine like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Snow!” Baz calls, and he watches Simon almost jump out of his skin. Baz approaches slowly. In any other context, Simon would probably be mad at him for treating him like a scared animal.

“Those were some pretty paintings, why wouldn’t you let me see them, before?” Baz thinks he knows why, but he also thinks he can’t risk getting his hopes up.

“I mean, they weren’t done yet, and--” Simon’s face is starting to turn red.

“And that was never a problem before. I know not every painting has a reason behind it, but those mean something to you. Tell me. Why one for every year you’ve known me?” Baz holds his breath. He has a feeling Simon is doing the same.

“My professor told me I needed to figure out a way to harness my bursts of inspiration, make them less random. That I needed to find something to focus on, some kind of muse to keep me motivated even when I didn’t feel inspired to paint. And it ended up...it was you.”

_Holy shit._

“Simon Snow, come over here and kiss me.” All the things he’s felt for Simon have always rested in his chest as a slow, aching burn. Now they feel like fire, coursing through his veins and burning him up from the inside out. He’s already addicted to the feeling. _I’m his goddamn_ muse.

“Do you think about me when you write?”

“Yes.” Baz doesn’t hesitate. He’s always thinking about Simon but he could have never imagined _this._ He never thought he was important enough to Simon to inspire a painting, let alone _three._ He’s thinking about the pinks and orange shapes on the canvas, of Simon working on them late into the night, brow furrowed as he tries to make every stroke perfect. As he thinks about _Baz._

Simon closes the distance between them, three feet away and then just _inches._ When his hand comes up to rest on Baz’ cheek, he almost melts underneath it. His brain is starting to short-circuit at the fact that _this is actually real._ One of the few thoughts that makes it through the white noise is that holy hell, he should go to these art shows more often.

Then Simon kisses him. And for the first time in his life, Baz doesn’t have any words. Just an explosion of color, bursting beautifully inside of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Fellas, is it gay to make multiple abstract paintings in the hopes of conveying your (not actually) hopeless crush on your roommate? Signs point to yes.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
